12 Songs
by greenfairy13
Summary: <html><head></head>Short ficlets in which the Doctor remembers Rose. Each story is based on the lyrics of a song.</html>
1. Chapter 1

_She was given to me to put things right,  
>And I stacked all my accomplishments beside her.<br>Still I seemed so obsolete and small,  
>I found God and all His devils inside her.<br>In my bed she cast the blizzard out,  
>A mock sun blazed upon her head.<br>So completely filled with light she was,  
>Her shadow fanged and hairy and mad.<br>Our love-lines grew hopelessly tangled,  
>And the bells from the chapel went jingle-jangle.<em>

_(Nick Cave)_

"Sooo,"Clara drawles, hopping onto the jump-seat. "I still don't get it."

"That's no wonder," the Doctor scoffs back. "Care to share what exactly is above your mental capacities?"

Ignoring the Doctor's insult, the young brunette just shakes her head. "The bank, Doctor. Why would anyone want to protect anything that desperately."

He shrugs. "It's an urge, embedded into almost every creature's nature. The things you desire, whatever you long for the most...you wish to protect it."

"But," Clara protests, "the whole planet is a bank. You take this thing - whatever it may be - there, lock it up, and leave it behind. It's like you don't even have it anymore."

"Some things are of such a great value, you'd do just that." He isn't looking at her as he pulls a lever, sending the TARDIS back into the vortex.

"How would you know that," she demands to know. "You put everything in danger, nothing seems to be important to you, there isn't anything you wouldn't risk, or put at stake."

"If you say that." He just tenses for the shortest amount of time, it's almost imperceptible.

"Do Time Lords have that urge too?"

"Sorry, what?"

Clara rolls her eyes. "Now, who's slow? Do Time Lords have that urge too? To keep things save? Is there anything you'd protect at all costs? Even at the price of the entire universe?"

"The universe, obviously," he retorts haughtily. "You little humans wouldn't be living your pointless little lives if not for me."

"There's gotta be something," the school-teacher argues.

He moves aside, traces the lines of his beloved console as his face is enlightened by the unearthly glow of the time-rotor. "I used to have something. I still have it, it's hidden from any harm," he whispers.

"What is it?"Clara presses, not even pretending to hide her curiosity.

"Something precious, unique – yet ordinary," he mutters. "I found it one night."

"What happened?"

"I took it with me. With this thing at my side, I found...I found wonder again. I found Gods and Devils."

Clara makes a noise, as if to pose a question but for once, the Doctor keeps talking. "I made sure this thing would be safe. I locked it up, on a place so very far away no one would ever find or reach it."

"Where?" she blurts out.

The Doctor just arches an eyebrow in amusement – yet, he doesn't look amused. He looks terrifying. "Not here, not even in this universe." He grins – and it's the epitome of smugness.

"And what keeps it safe?" Clara can't help asking.

"_Me._ I stacked all my accomplishments beside that thing. Clara, do you fear me sometimes? Do you fear what I'm capable of?"

She can only nod as she breathes out her last question."What was this thing?"

"It was light. It was full of light."


	2. Chapter 2

_Healing holy man, once upon a time,  
>He lived for his wife up until the crime.<br>Hunting high and low to seek revenge.  
>Brand new moral code, got made reluctant renegade.<br>Leaving empty souls when he avenged.  
>Evil spirits flowed, he drank the blood like lemonade.<em>

_(Morcheeba)_

"I see in to your soul, Doctor. I see beauty. I see divinity. I see hatred!"

Hatred.

The Doctor curls the corners of his mouth. An angry snarl escapes his throat.

_It _had been so close. He had that disgusting, obscene _creature _allowed to take a look at his magnificent mind, had allowed it to reach into his very core.

He had lost control – _almost_.

The thing would have almost seen the bottom of his being, would have almost reached the end of the slope into his soul.

If it would have only reached a tad bit deeper...

_No!_

He grimaces, grins – or bares his teeth. Really, no living being in this universe could ever tell the difference.

The Doctor is a new man. Gone are ridiculous bow-ties and floppy hair. Gone is the flirty attitude. It's easier that way – more honest.

But still...there's one lie left. A lie he carries proudly, like a banner.

_His name._

The name he chose - that name that isn't a name, but a promise. It's his vow. A vow to be a good man, a healing man – even a holy man?

He lives like a saint – in solitude.

He's always on the run, always fixing, helping, mending _stuff_.

The Doctor does it because it is his job.

The man who once gave the vow, does it for the sake of old habits, not because he believes in his vow.

He doesn't believe in being a doctor for a very long time now.

Deep down in his soul lies all-engulfing, pitch-black hatred.

But hatred is like darkness – it can't exist without light.

And you can only hate with fierce determination, if you once loved just as much. Oh! Did he once love!

Once...

Once, he had wished to become a human, to shed his immortality, to be a _doctor_.

But the creature – _it_, it came one day and ripped what had been most precious away. It stole what was the Doctor's.

Ever since, he tries to defeat the creature, tries to wipe it from this universe's surface. He wishes to tear it apart, scatter his atoms, toss it into the void.

He desires to inflict _pain._

So. Much. Pain.

Yet, the creature comes back – again and again.

And the hatred prospers, spreads – grows bigger every single day, every hour, every minute, every second.

The Doctor hates _this_ universe .

Seeking revenge, he disguises vengeance as help.

Today, he manipulated the creature, said he would heal it – and people died. He knew he would never be able to change the creature's core, he didn't even hope to.

But that's okay. Sometimes, the doctor's patients die, don't they?


	3. Chapter 3

_And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight,  
>But my hands been broken, one too many times.<br>So I use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude.  
>Words they always win, but I know I'll lose.<em>

_(Tom Odell, Another Love)_

"Clara!" The Doctor's voice startles the woman from her musings. She's comfortably sitting on the jump-seat, enjoying a cup of tea, glad to be clad in her own clothes again. As beautiful as this 1930ies attire was, it felt like a costume.

Her had snaps up and she looks him in the eye, a silent question forming on her face.

"You know that I'm happy for you, right? You know I'm glad you found that Danny?"

She's taken aback, stunned. Not a single word escapes her mouth. She just raises an eyebrow, wondering if this conversation will go on, or if the Doctor just dives back under the console.

"I just thought I should tell you," he grumbles. "Recently, you came to believe, I don't have a heart."

"It's okay, Doctor. I know you've been pretending," Clara replies. Their friendship isn't back to normal just yet, and their relationship certainly isn't as deep as it used to be when the Doctor still wore bow-ties.

"Is it?" he arches an eyebrow, fixes her with his ancient eyes. It's unsettling, she wishes he'd go back to tinkering.

Instead, he wipes his hands and walks down the stairs. With a heavy sigh, he settles down beside her on the jump-seat. "It never gets any easier, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh...this." He waves his hand around a bit, reminding her for a moment of his previous self. A rueful smile forms around the corners of his mouth. "People leaving, moving on, living their lives..." His voice cracks, and Clara wonders how tired he must be, to speak so freely.

"I meant what I told you," she answers. "It doesn't have to be you, who makes the impossible choices...You could always just stop," she suggests.

He snorts in response, a mirthless chuckle escapes his throat. "And who else should make them?"

"Well, you forced me to make such a choice not long ago," Clara points out. She tries, but fails at keeping a hint of accusation from her voice.

"I did, and you did brilliantly. But didn't you wish I had been in your place?"

Clara doesn't answer.

"Clara, I know you'll move on soon. I know, you'll leave – and I don't blame you. This life isn't for the long run."

"You haven't been fair to me!" she blurts out. "All these months since you changed...You insulted me, Doctor. You made me feel unworthy, unwanted..."

"I know!" he shouts out, interrupts her. "I know, Clara! But I'm more honest regarding you than ever before."

"This train!" she cries out in anger. "It killed _everyone _it deemed unworthy, _unimportant_ – it could have killed me – without a second thought."

"And unimportant you are!"

He's silent after his sudden outburst, and she sucks in a ragged breath.

"Are you jealous?" she demands to know. "Because of Danny," she clarifies.

"Jealous...," he muses. "I haven't been jealous in a few hundred years now."

"I know you're an alien. I know you're not jealous in the sense a male human would be," she hastily adds, hoping the Doctor won't get the wrong idea.

A sly grin spreads across his face. "Clara, I told you I knew what I'd been doing. I know, we were flirting. I've lived long enough among humans...with humans."

She gasps, tenses beside him, wishes he'd forget and never mention again how it once had been between them. Once, she thought he might love her. Once, she thought she might love him. It had been a lie.

"Why? Why did you do it?" She seeks his face. This will be the first and the last time they'll ever talk about this. A heavy sense of closure hangs in the air between them, thick and awkward.

"Because I could. I was young and dashing and you fell for me – they all did." He grimaces.

"That's one of your addictions too," Clara ponders. "This _vanity_."

"And the other one?"

"I've told you before. _This _life...this addiction to adrenaline, excitement. You almost killed yourself today – again." She shakes her head in disbelief.

"And what would your suggestion be? A house? A wife? A picket-fence and two point three children?" Oddly, there's no sarcasm in his tone.

"Why not?" She shrugs.

"I have been married, you know."

"I know."

"That didn't stop me."

"I know." Clara feels drained and wishes she could go to bed, leave.

"That was me trying, Clara. And I am sorry."

It's been a while since the Doctor apologised. He used to do it all the time. Now it surprises Clara.

"Trying what exactly?"

"To move on." His answer sounds like a question.

"From River?"

He shakes his head. "Clara...I've lived a long life. And I want you to know, I am not addicted. I don't need the excitement, the danger, the fear, the adrenaline." He's silent for a bit. "I want you to know, I would have never allowed that mummy to hurt you. _Not ever. _I would have thought until my last breath to keep you safe."

"So what?" She's still harsh, still guarded, but her eyes have softened.

"I told you it never gets easier. Don't you think in all my two-thousand I never once stopped running?"

"Are you trying to tell me you had a normal life?" Clara snorts.

"I don't know – can't remember." He pauses. "Which is a good thing, means I still have that life – _maybe._"

"I don't understand," she starts, but then her eyes widen in realisation. _Twelve previous Doctors – yet only eleven faces._

"Who was she?" Clara whispers.

"Oh," he smiles as he gets up and retreats back into the depths of the TARDIS. "Somebody completely _unimportant_."


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm laying down, eating snow.  
>My fur is hot, my tongue is cold.<br>On a bed of spider web,  
>I think of how to change myself.<em>

_(Fever Ray – Keep the Streets Empty for Me)_

Clara is immediately set on high alert when she sees the woman. She isn't exceptionally frightening. In fact, she looks quite normal with her straight blonde hair, the back jeans and the battered leather-jacket.

Still, she's wrong. Her black rimmed eyes are hollow, filled with pain and wisdom beyond her young age. She has eyes like the Doctor – hard and determined, like she's used to making terrible choices.

And she's coated in mud, dirt and blood. There's a red streak across her cheek, her violet jacket is torn and shabby, her jeans are ripped.

Clara shivers. The woman hasn't seen her. Yet Clara fears the possibility. She doesn't do anything, this mysterious woman, just hugs her middle like she's close to falling apart. Usually, the warm-hearted companion of the Doctor would walk over, ask her what's wrong.

Instead, she just spins around on her heel, and runs as fast as she can. This woman is so wrong, so displaced in time and space, emitting desperation and pain like a beacon of darkness.

The young teacher is panting when storming into the TARDIS. Her mouth is forming a silent cry, her eyes are wide, and the hairs on her nape stand up.

The Doctor is his usual self. All brusque and arrogant, hardly noticing her. He isn't the same man he used to be. Not this Doctor, dressed in black from head to heel. His outfit has colour though – but it's hidden in the lining, invisible. Like something that's there, and not at the same time.

"Something wrong?" he wants to know, arching his, as he calls it, "battle-eyebrow", curiously.

"She's wrong," Clara gasps out. "This woman outside – she's so wrong. I could sense it, she's off her time-line."

He snorts. "How would you know?"

"Because I know her," Clara yells back in frustration with the man before her. "I see her all the time, remember her all the time. She's in my dreams, I know her, since I fell into your time-stream and I've seen her..." Suddenly, Clara stops talking, for she no longer remembers where she has seen this woman. She just knows, knows, knows.

"Did she hurt you?" the Doctor asks, scanning her with the sonic and pocketing it shortly afterwards, obviously pleased with the results.

"No," Clara stutters out.

"So? What is this ridiculousness?"

"I, I don't know," the girl stutters. "She just felt wrong, and I panicked and ran."

"I thought, I had taught you better than running from the unknown," he retorts haughtily.

"Doctor," Clara starts to explain, but her voice fails her. Taking a deep breath, she starts again, "She felt wrong, okay? Like some sort of carnivore, like a wolf. And Doctor, I used to have this dream...I was walking home, but I would always get off track, lose my way and the wolf would show up. It would always walk behind me, always follow..."

Clara isn't given the opportunity to finish her sentence, for the Doctor storms out of the TARDIS. Pumping his legs frantically, he rushes down the street, circles corners, races up and down.

When coming back, he's panting, trying to catch his breath – and failing.

"Where?" he blurts out. "Where?" he repeats, shaking Clara's shoulders manically.

"Doctor stop it!" she shrieks and he releases her. The frenzied expression on his face though, remains.

"I need to find her," he mutters. "Need to find the wolf.."

"But Doctor – the wolf is chasing me."

Pinning Clara with his hard stare, he returns, "No, no, no...you get it all wrong. The wolf is lost, trying to come home. She's alone in the dark. She's freezing, suffering – I need to find her."

"She?" Clara asks incredulously. "Is the woman the wolf?"

He tilts his head and takes a deep breath, flares his nostrils as if to pick up a trace. When opening his eyes, Clara is still standing before him, expecting an answer.

"Of course not," he huffs. "A wolf – that's the stuff of fairy tales."

"Or legends?" Clara asks thoughtlessly and the Doctor's body stiffens.

"Or that."


	5. Chapter 5

_And when we meet,  
>Which I'm sure we will.<br>All that was there,  
>Will be there still.<br>I'll let it pass,  
>And hold my tongue,<br>And you will think,  
>That I've moved on...<em>

_(Dido White Flag)_

It's not Wednesday.

Clara is at home, teaching children, doing all that human-y stuff the Doctor pretends do despise.

He has been given a brand new start, with this body of an old man that resembles his first. Again, he is clad in black. Again, he has grey hair.

The Doctor is an alien, a man more than two-thousand years old, a Time Lord from the lost planet Gallifrey.

"I am not human," he keeps telling himself.

Humanity is one of these words, of which anyone knows what it means, but is hard to define. The dictionary regards it as the quality or state of being kind to other people or animals. According to that definition, the Doctor is human.

If being human means being mortal, or having the urge to settle down, to love and be loved, the Doctor is not human.

He tells himself every day.

River used to say the Doctor lies. But are you lying, when you're not aware of the lie?

Time has been rewritten, and he's close to finding Gallifrey, close to home.

Once again, the walls between universes are weak. One day, the TARDIS falls through a hole in the fabric of reality, crushes through the void and lands in London.

It's a sunny day in spring – not too cold, not too hot. The air still tastes like winter, leaving a cold, fresh flavour on the tip of your tongue.

Descending the TARDIS, and walking over a lush green hill, the Doctor comes to a graveyard. There's nothing exceptional about this place – it's only quiet, emitting a sense of dignity and sadness.

On this bright day, that feels like recommencement and hope, nobody's at this solemn place except for one person.

She's just sitting on the lawn, her long, blond hair hanging loosely, partially covering her face. Her eyes are hollow, like she has been crying for too long, and no longer has the strength to shed even one more tear.

She might be twenty years old, or two-hundred – the Doctor doesn't know. He doesn't know her, but she's oddly familiar.

He walks over to her. Settling down, he eyes the gravestones she's staring at.

"Have you lost someone?" he asks bluntly.

"Hasn't everyone?" she retorts, shrugging. The woman doesn't look at him.

"I am..." he pauses, deciding on the lie he's going to tell her. "John Smith," he finishes. His new acquaintance nods.

"And you?" he wants to know.

"Lilly?" It sounds like a question. "Or maybe Margaret?" Taking off her sun-glasses, she frowns, like trying to remember. "Lilac – eventually. Wait! Is Lilac even a name?" Closing her eyes, she leans back on the grass. "It had something to do with flowers," she muses. "Doesn't matter," she adds determinedly.

"But names are important," the Doctor argues.

"Are they? I thought the name one chooses matters."

"That's just hypocrisy."

"Is it?" she asks, looking him in the eye for the first time. Her gaze makes him feel like a butterfly pinned to a wall.

"Whom did you lose?" The Doctor never ever asks twice – but every rule has exceptions.

"I hardly remember his face. It's been so long...," she whispers. "My name died with him. Nobody could say my name like he did." She sucks in a deep breath. "So I let my name die with him."

"Rose?" It's a statement, a question, a vow – everything and nothing.

"I don't know her," she mumbles, averting her eyes. "Is this the person you lost?"

He doesn't reply. It's silent, except for the sound of the wind in the trees. One-thousand years ago, he had been lying on the grass just like that.

"Would you like to take a walk with me?" he inquires finally.

"Where's the sense in that, if all ways just lead to an end?"

This time, the Doctor doesn't repeat his question.


	6. Chapter 6

_I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind.  
>Sucker love I always find,<br>Someone to bruise and leave behind.  
>All alone in space and time,<br>There's nothing here but what here's mine._

Tears are streaming down her face. Her skin looks white and pale against the black streaks of scattered mascara smeared over her cheeks. It's as if she's put on a war paint – except, she's lost and broken.

The war is over, and nobody has won.

Cause that's an universal truth: a war only knows losers, and broken souls. Ragged and torn she is – but beautiful.

She's only a child, this pink and yellow girl with the swollen, black eye.

Yet the woman who will one day help saving all of creation, is already visible – she's right under the surface. One day she'll become a Goddess, a myth, the stuff legends are made of.

The Doctor knows it's all wrong. Rose is too young and he has no place in this part of her time-stream.

That didn't stop him though from coming back when being in his eleventh body. The Doctor willingly played the part of a tutor when he wore bow-ties and tweed-jackets. Disguised as an eccentric young man, he kept his distance – and stole another memory.

Now he's old. Standing in the shadows like a crow, all dressed in black, he watches what time once ripped from him, what time will one day rip from him. After all time is relative.

Rose is pacing the pavement, unsure what to do. She's rubbing her swollen eye, biting her trembling bottom-lip nervously. Letting out a defeated sigh, she turns on her heel and starts walking back where she came from.

"Don't go back to him!" the Doctor shouts at her retreating form.

Rose's head whips around and she's staring at him with her big honey-coloured eyes.

"What?" she asks in bewilderment.

"You heard right," he snaps back. "Don't make me repeat myself. I don't like to repeat my words."

"What's it your business anyway?" Rose huffs, cheeks heating up the shade of pink he loves most in the universe.

"He'll beat you again." The Doctor shrugs. "It's not my business, but it's disgustingly obvious. You should punch your other eye yourself, and save your boyfriend the effort." His voice is indifferent, a bit harsh. In truth he's terrified she'll go back into her flat, back to Jimmy.

Rose clenches her fists, opens her mouth, and he braces himself for the tirade that sure will follow – except it doesn't. Instead a strangled sob escapes her mouth, as she wraps her arms around her body.

"I've got nowhere to go," she confesses.

"Go to your mother," the Doctor bites out, swallowing the bile of nostalgia that follows remembering Jackie. "And don't you dare telling me she won't take you back," he adds, arching one of his battle eyebrows.

Rose watches him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "That's the moment you'll tell me it gets better, isn't it?" There's the faint ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Rubbish," he scoffs, hating himself for the rough reply the moment it left his mouth as he observes the hope shatter in her face.

Yet his answer sparks something in his pink and yellow human. "Rubbish?" she echoes. "How can you say being in love is _rubbish_?"

"That's _not _love," he retorts haughtily. "Love will be _different_," he adds with the determination of a man knowing the future.

"Will it?" she demands to know.

"Will it?" he imitates her tone sarcastically. "Do you know what's the point in happiness?"

Rose shakes her head, curious for his answer.

"The sadness, the despair when falling from grace is all the more unbearable," he informs her bitterly. "You think that piteous, disgusting creature that dares rising his hand against you is what love looks like?" The Doctor snorts. "One day a man will burn up a sun just to see your face a last time and you'll tear down the walls of the universe just to get back to him."

She makes a noise, probably wants to reply to this obviously mad man, but the Doctor interrupts her. "That's not better though. It just hurts inexplicably more. You'll be one of the few creatures in this universe to experience real love," he barks out. "But that isn't any better – it just hurts forever when it inevitably ends in tears."

Gaping at the nutter who this old man is, Rose poses a question. "What's the point then?"

Bursting out in manic laughter he says, "There is no point! You humans – always looking for a pattern in the chaos."

Stepping forward, he encircles her waist, presses his lips against her mouth. Tangling his fingers in her hair and cupping the back of her head, he swipes the tip of his tongue against the seam of her lips. Groaning, he presses against her, clutches her tightly as he sucks her bottom-lip roughly.

Panting frantically the Doctor releases Rose. "There is no point, no sense," he informs her, shaking his head. "There's just longing. We're all addicts, Rose Tyler. We crave what we can't have and when we lose it, we want it back. _Forever_."

Trembling, Rose touches her lips with her forefinger. "How do you know my name?" she whispers.

The Doctor doesn't move, just keeps staring at her like a lion watching a wildebeest. "Either way – this won't end well for you."

"How does it end?" He can tell the little girl is scared now – quite right.

"You'll be left behind." Sucking in a ragged breath, he turns to leave.

"Wait!" Rose shouts. "Who are you? Will I see you again?"

The Doctor just smirks.


	7. Chapter 7

_My body is a cage,  
>That keeps me from dancing with the one I love.<br>But my mind holds the key._

Peter Gabriel, My Body Is A Cage

"You don't like beaches, don't you?" Clara's voice startles him.

He doesn't look at her, as he keeps fiddling with the console. It's a well practised dance, this whirling and twirling around the console. Coat lapels flapping behind him, revealing the red lining, give him the impression of being a magician.

That's okay. People mistook him for a god, a devil, a demon, a sorcerer, a spirit, a soldier...He's none of that, and all of that. Once he used to be a doctor, but on some days he can't remember why he gave himself that title. Martha said he'd have to earn his doctorate – he earned it once, but he isn't sure he lost the right to carry that title.

"Why are you saying that?" the Doctor asks his companion.

"You couldn't get fast enough back into the TARDIS – didn't even enjoy the sunset," Clara explains.

"Ah right, seen enough sunsets in two-thousand years," he retorts, busying himself with the keyboard. The TARDIS is long since in the vortex – his doings fulfil no purpose and he knows Clara can tell.

"I won't live that long," his friend states lightly. The declaration cuts to his very core, wrenches his hearts, turns his guts.

"I know," he scoffs back. "You're not the first to leave me – you won't be the last. People come and go. For you humans life with me is an adventure, some fun – but it's not real, it's not _living_. You'll have enough time for sunsets, ice-cream cones and Christmas dinners. Don't worry."

Clara falls silent for a moment, studies him with her huge brown eyes. "I didn't say I'd leave."

"Of course not." He whirls towards her. "They never say – just do."

Sitting down on the jump seat, Clara wants to know, "Doctor, there's something I'm wondering about for a while now."

"Spill," he commands briskly.

"How come, you're always being left behind? Haven't you ever wondered...two-thousand years and there's no one who wanted to stay at your side?" As realisation hits her, what her question implies, Clara snaps her mouth shut. "Sorry. Never mind," she mumbles. Getting up from her seat, she heads for her room.

"The thought crossed my mind too," the Doctor answers suddenly, letting go of the various keys and buttons. "You think there must be something wrong with me, right? Something that keeps people staying at my side – that might be right. Two-thousand years...I only ever found one person who would have followed me down the path of my life." He pauses, lost in memories. "_Forever_," he breathes barely audible.

"And where is that person?" Clara wonders.

"_Gone,_" he answers.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't let that happen."

"But why?" Clara presses.

"Cause I'll never change who or what I am."

"But you could. Only you could."

"I think you should head to bed now, Clara."


End file.
